The morning sun spilled across the marble floor as I walked through the lobby of Peters and Co Ltd.
My ID badge felt too light for the weight in my chest.
I'd told myself today was about work and finding anything implicating. Nothing else.
The receptionist smiled and directed me to the finance floor.
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet hum, releasing the faint scent of paper, coffee, and cologne that reminded me of him.
I shook my head quickly. It was ridiculous to think of Kennedy Peters on my first day. He was my boss now. That was all.
The office buzzed with low voices and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards.
Desks were arranged neatly beneath rows of lights that glowed soft and warm.
The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showing the city waking up, tiny cars, silver buildings, a slow river of people moving below.
A tall woman with neat braids greeted me. "You must be Elena Benson. I'm Clara, the department head. Mr. Peters said you'd be joining us."
My stomach fluttered. He mentioned me?
I smiled. "Thank you. I'm excited to start."
Clara led me to a small desk near the window. "We value precision here," she said kindly. "You'll handle basic financial reports for now. Mr. Peters likes interns who take initiative."
His name in her mouth did strange things to me. I nodded quickly and turned on the computer to hide my face.
For the next few hours, I forced myself into the rhythm of numbers and data.
The screen glowed with endless rows of figures, but my focus slipped.
Every now and then, I caught the deep sound of a voice drifting from the corridor, his voice, firm, calm, always certain. Each time, my heartbeat stuttered.
At noon, I carried my lunch to the break room.
The smell of warm pastries and coffee filled the air.
I sat near the window, unwrapping my sandwich, when a familiar ache pressed against my ribs. My mind pulled me backward, to another room, another light.
My mother's hospital room had smelled of disinfectant and lavender lotion.
Machines hummed softly beside her bed. I was seventeen, sitting close, trying not to cry.
Her skin was pale, her fingers light as feathers as she reached for mine.
"Elena," she had whispered, her voice thin but steady, "promise me you'll take care of what's ours."
"I will, Mom."
Her eyes had searched mine, bright even through the pain.
Those words had carved themselves into me. Even now, years later, they still echoed whenever I felt weak.
I blinked quickly and looked down at my sandwich.
This is why I'm here, I reminded myself. Not for him. For her.
The door opened and broke the thought. A low, even voice filled the small room.
"Miss Benson."
I looked up, startled. Kennedy stood there, sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loosened, a file in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
"Mr. Peters," I said, standing too fast. Heat rushed to my cheeks.
He moved closer to the counter, droppong a cup. The woman behind filled the cup immediately.
The sound of the liquid filling the cup was strangely loud in the quiet room.
He didn't look at me at first, just stirred his drink slowly, the spoon clinking against the ceramic.
Then he turned. "How's your first day?"
"Good," I said quickly. "I'm still learning the system, but I'll get used to it."
He nodded, taking a sip. "Clara said you're meticulous. That's a good start."
"Thank you."
He watched me for a moment, as if measuring something invisible.
The air between us grew still. I could hear the faint hum of the vending machine, the faraway buzz of phones ringing in the distance.
Silence followed, gentle but heavy.
I became aware of everything, the faint scent of coffee on his breath, the quiet strength in his posture, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long before he turned away.
He checked his watch.
"When you're done here, come to my office. I'd like to go over a few reports with you."
"Yes, sir."
He left as quietly as he came. The door closed, and I released a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
His office looked different in daylight. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in slices of sunlight that streaked across the floor.
He stood by the window, reading something on a tablet. When I stepped inside, he looked up.
"Sit," he said, motioning to the same chair as before.
I sat, folding my hands neatly on my lap.
He placed a folder on the desk.
"These are internal financial statements from the last quarter. I want you to review them and summarize any irregularities. Accuracy is key."
I nodded, taking the folder. Our fingers brushed for the briefest second. My pulse jumped.
"Do you have any questions?" he asked, leaning back slightly.
"No, sir."
"Good." He studied me again, and this time his eyes softened, as if he'd forgotten to guard them.
"You're young. But you have that look, like someone who's already seen too much."
The words startled me. I managed a small laugh. "Maybe I just worry too much."
He smiled faintly. "Worry can be useful. It means you care about getting things right."
I looked down at the folder, pretending to read the top page, though the letters blurred. "I do."
He leaned forward then, elbows on the desk, his voice dropping slightly.
"Tell me, Miss Benson. What does success mean to you?"
The question caught me off guard.
I thought of my mother again, of her voice fading into the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.
I thought of her promise and my father's cold eyes at the funeral.
"Success," I said slowly, "means taking back what was stolen from you and making it yours again."
His brows lifted slightly, interest flickering in his eyes. "That's a strong answer."
"It's an honest one."
He nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Honesty is rare here. Hold on to it."
I looked up then, and for a moment, neither of us looked away.
The silence stretched, warm and dangerous. The city outside blurred into a wash of light.
Something unspoken passed between us something I didn't have a name for yet.
He broke the gaze first. "You can go," he said quietly. "Bring me your report tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
I stood and turned toward the door, but his voice stopped me again.
As I walked out of his office, the echo of my mother's words tangled with his in my mind.
Take back what belongs to us.
Don't let anyone underestimate you.
The elevator doors closed behind me, but my reflection in the metal doors still looked dazed, like someone stepping into a story she didn't yet know the ending of.
I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm.
For you, Mom, I whispered silently.
But even as I said it, I couldn't ignore the truth stirring quietly inside me,
that my heart wasn't only fighting for revenge anymore.
It was beginning to notice the man I was supposed to destroy.